


Competitive Maintenance Subroutines

by Megan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Helmsman, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Tentacles, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/pseuds/Megan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All helmsmen get their entertainment where they can. Damara and Mituna are just a little (okay, a lot) more socially unacceptable about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Competitive Maintenance Subroutines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spockandawe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/gifts).



> You had me at "actual tentacle hentai monster Damara Megido." ;)
> 
> I made some fixes to Damara's canon broken syntax here, because (1) a wall of Babelfish Japanese wouldn't make for good reading and (2) her English/Alternian is so racist that I honestly cannot believe Hussie thought it was okay to put in the comic. I didn't make it perfect, but it's not _Full Metal Jacket_ anymore, either.
> 
> Mituna's reaction image is from Pictures for Sad Children.

TA: 8483 Y0U 60774 533 7H15  
TA: CH01C3 4C710N  
  
TA has sent you the file C4PT41N5L06.avi

You try not to socialize with other ships, because half of them are soulless drones and the other half are weaboo nerdlords who get wet when they see your system login. The overlap between 'trolls psychic enough to power a helmship' and 'trolls who think foreign-language cartoons are the highest form of art in the empire' is horrifyingly close to one hundred percent. TA is sort of an exception.

Not because he doesn't think foreign-language cartoons are high art, because he does. It's just that he thinks that about quasi-legal hardcore porn they have to animate because real trolls won't act it out, not the big-eyed, sparkly bullshit about jadeblood wrigglers learning life lessons the others pretend they're not jamming biowires up their nooks to. You have to respect someone whose dedication to making his betters wildly uncomfortable is just as up-front as yours, at least a little.

Besides, when you told him that you would jam your thrusters into his forward weapons bay and skullfuck his ship into a piece of decaying wreckage, he'd replied with 8483 1 4M 1N70 7H47.

AA: BORED.  
AA: YOU ARE JUST REPEATING WHAT I DID LAST PERIGEE.  
AA: COME BACK WHEN YOU LEARN TO RUN A REAL TIME VIDEO FEED. AND NOT SHORT IT OUT WITH SLURRY ALL OVER THE WIRES.

You recognize the troll in the video clip from a few others TA has sent your way, a tall, thin highblood who comes to check on TA's slurry-damaged wiring a little more often than strictly necessary. Most ship captains-- including your own, which is shocking only because you half expect him to come down here and order you to pail him out of desperation-- would send an engineer to investigate something like that, but not TA's captain.

He-- the captain, that is, though you doubt TA could rewire himself if his life depended on it-- probably doesn't know a damn thing about the wiring, because what is a captain besides someone who thinks he's an engineer and a shipwright and a helm technician all rolled into one, and is completely wrong about all of those?

You can't really make out what they're saying; the captain's voice is too low and TA's is nasal and high, and whatever garbage microphone defaults TA is using fail at both extremes of the audible spectrum equally. His engineering crew needs to stop worrying about their bulges and start worrying about preventative maintenance on the sensory equipment.

The clip isn't really anything special; the captain knows exactly what he's getting, and he's ready for it. No amount of creative biowire action-- and it's not even that, because TA is the kind of troll who thinks it's more about the number of wires and less about what he does with them-- can remove that fangy highblood smirk. 

Fucker's even brought a bucket with him so he doesn't ruin his uniform or cause an embarrassingly inexplicable helmsblock fire getting moisture all over the wrong bare circuit. TA is slipping, letting the captain get away with that.

Not in your helmsblock. If the ship is your body now-- and that's what the constant, perigees-long forced schoolfeeding upon installation tells you, isn't it?-- then this block is your goddamn bulge. The Mirthful Messiahs help anyone who thinks they can march in here like that and not get fucked in ways they won't like.

TA: 837 Y0U C4N7 P41L Y0UR C4P741N L1K3 7H47   
AA: YOU ARE RIGHT. I CAN NOT PAIL MY CAPTAIN LIKE THAT.   
AA: TOO EASY.   
AA: SMELLS TOO MUCH LIKE A FISH DIED IN HIS NOOK.   
AA: YOU WILL NOT PAIL CAPTAIN AMPORA EITHER IF YOU MEET HIM.   
TA: 0RLY   
AA: I HAVE A NEW ENGINEER.   
AA: I SHOW YOU HOW THIS IS DONE.   
TA: Y455555555   
AA: GIVE ME ONE HOUR. I SHOW YOU RIGHT NOW.

Getting the aforementioned new engineer, a vaguely attractive tealblood with sad horns but shiny hair, down to the helmsblock is easy. All it takes is a few faked error messages just above the pay grade of the rest of the staff and he's thorax-deep in your wiring, trying to troubleshoot.

You don't bother learning his name, both because the only names worth your time anymore are the two-letter system abbreviations of your fellow sad-sack porn enthusiasts stuck in their helmsblocks and because he will inevitably do something to piss off your trash captain and find himself stranded at the nearest outpost. The crew members cute enough to catch his eye and smart enough to know they can do better always end up like that.

This new engineer isn't some fresh out of schoolfeeding recruit, though. Maybe the fleet's getting sick of going through engineers just because one captain isn't getting his bulge wet, and they're sending out crew members who can hold their own.

You're well aware of the fact that even with your arms and legs grafted into a biomechanical apparatus, zipped into a hideous flight suit made of skintight battleship red and your hair cropped off into fluffy curls around your face that won't tangle in the wires or catch on fire if something sparks, you are one hot piece of troll. You've got enough rumble sphere to rattle the walls when you growl and a rack that could kill someone all on its own. Your face makes gross, fetishizing nerds leave their dank holes and murder each other for you.

You also look fucking fantastic in hideous battleship red. Your new engineer is going to say yes to everything, and keep his squawk blister shut about it to the walking metal nutrition receptacle of roe that is your captain.

Once he's down in the helmsblock investigating yet another short-out, you realize it's going to be a little more difficult than you'd planned. For one, he's paying attention to his job-- which is the wiring, not you.

"I don't know how you all keep doing this to your wiring," he says. Hopefully those short horns aren't an indication of what he's got elsewhere, because his obliviousness makes you want to ruin him.

"Only thing to do down here is porn," you say in your most cheerful voice, the one that makes other trolls think you're a stupid, cute foreigner. "Should make wires waterproof."

At least he doesn't blush when you say that. If he had, you wouldn't have been able to stop yourself from psionically peeling him out of his fleet uniform. Not that you're opposed to that-- it's just that he's a little too high up in the pecking order for you to get away with doing anything he doesn't think he wants.

You know perfectly well what he sees when he finally stops ignoring you in favor of the tangled mess of biowires, because you put the picture together very deliberately: the zipper of your flight suit pulled down precariously over your rumble spheres, seemingly ready to fall down further with every breath that shakes it, your mouth pursed closed to hide your nubby lowblood teeth and let him imagine that you've got a set of fangs to match your impressive horns.

The video isn't streaming yet; the last thing you'll need if you fail and this engineer initiates a security protocol is a gold star from TA, telling you that you'd tried. You'll start transmitting the footage when this is a little bit more of a sure thing.

"Excuse me?" He asks. Now he's blushing, a spill of teal across his face. Too worldly to put up with the captain's bullshit or no, he clearly doesn't know what to make of you. You are going to destroy him, and the thought of that has your bulge slipping out to press up against the front of your flight suit in obvious admiration. Even the world's most oblivious engineering nerd has to know what that means.

"You hear me." You lick your lips. Maybe you're laying the whole broken Alternian thing on a little thick, but as opening moves go it usually works. Combining it with the porn stereotypes about perverted helms with nothing to do but pail themselves out of boredom during downtime? It hasn't failed you yet. "You want to fuck me? Other engineers all do."

Yeah, you've got him. Even if you didn't have access to the scanners tracking crew vital signs in real time, which show a huge spike in all of his vital signs, you can smell the pheromones on him from all the way over here. Blushing or not, you've totally got him, and he's not making it out of here with his dignity or his nook intact.

"Come on," you taunt him, even as you're opening up the video feed to TA in another process. "I know your bulge can't reach me from all way over there."

That finally gets him to leave the maintenance he came down here to do alone and cross the block so he can hook a claw in your zipper and pull the flight suit open in one long tug. The force of it bounces your rumble spheres right out, and and your bulge follows his hand to wrap around his wrist.

He's too busy looking at what you've got above the waist to notice when you replace your bulge with a warm, slick coil of biowire.

"You like?" You ask him. He nods, and you can't help it-- you rip open his uniform with a psionic burst powerful enough to send the tiny fasteners flying.

"Sorry," you say, cheerful and not sorry at all. His bulge curls up against your thigh, headed right for your nook, and that's when he notices that your bulge isn't what's wrapped around his hand.

"Helmsman Megido," he says, and who told this piece of garbage he could use your name? You wrap another wire around his other wrist, and use them to jerk him backward.

"I say that we fuck," you tell him, as if explaining basic concepts to a wriggler. "Not that you use me for bucket."

It would be so much easier to hold his head steady if his horns were bigger; the short, curled ones he's got are hard to keep a psionic grip on. You manage it, though, and he stops struggling against you while you find the particular wires you'll need. The spare nutrient delivery ports are perfect for this-- they're thick and slippery and there's no electrical charge to manage.

"You look good," you purr as the first nutrient tube winds its way up past his gaping uniform. "You psychic? Maybe we install you here. Engineering team use you for a bucket."

This filthy piece of shit is getting off on it. Not only is he not initiating any safety measures, but his bulge is practically tangled up with itself. His nook is dripping teal all over your floor, and nobody's told him he can do that, either.

"I am whole ship, yes?" You ask him sweetly. That's the fact that is supposed to make helmsmen feel better about their existence, that they're something more, and he nods. "Then no using ship for pail at all. I already said this."

You time it just right, the nutrient tube in his mouth and your psionics nudging his bulge up into his own nook at the same time. He doesn't seem to register at first that he doesn't have a second biowire between his legs; he's too busy opening his mouth and inviting her in.

"Filthy trash," you croon at him encouragingly. "You have bulge down your throat before. Drone control finds out you do that and they will install you here for engineers."

That's when he notices that he's fucking himself, and he squirms in your hold. He's trying to withdraw his bulge, but it's nothing at all to psionically keep it there. His bulge does the rest of the work for you, thrashing around enthusiastically and rendering him a little more tremblingly compliant with each thrust against his shame globes.

"No taking it out," you reprimand him. "I am whole ship and I am not your bucket, so only place for your disgusting slurry to go is inside you."

He lets out a strangled moan, muffled by the biowire, and writhes against the bindings around his arms. You had, thankfully, been wrong about the correlation between bulge size and horn size in his case. His bulge is clearly bigger than what he's used to taking, and scarcely a trickle of fluid escapes his stretched-wide nook around it.

"I think you need more," you say, as much thinking aloud as it is for his benefit. Two more biowires snake out and spiral up his legs, lifting them up and behind him until you've got him completely suspended. Maybe shredding the rest of his uniform off isn't necessary, but it serves him right for being so eager to rip your flight suit right off your rumble spheres.

You're in no hurry to come yourself; you've got all the time in the world to pail yourself stupid, given that it's one of the few biological functions a helmsman gets to keep their conscious control over, and you're not doing it in front of him. Later on you'll watch the replay and imagine that it's your bulge sliding up to him instead of another nutrient tube.

Maybe it logic-- he's only got one more place for a wire to go-- and maybe he's been warned by other crew members who've made the same mistake, but either way he seems to know where you're headed with the dripping-slick cluster of biowire. He squirms and tries to tense up, but his bulge slams up against his genetic material gland. You know exactly where it hits because you're giving it plenty of help, and the sudden, disorienting sensation puts him off balance long enough for you to press the biowire up against his waste chute.

"There," you say when he's properly situated, trembling and full and looking at you with desperation in his eyes. "I think I leave you there while maintenance runtime finishes. You come down when it is time for signing forms."

He doesn't scream or howl or fight against the biowires. In fact, that muffled moan sounds like an affirmative.

"Since you are being good, I leave suit open for you," you say, and straighten up in the helm so your rumble spheres bounce a little for emphasis. "Much better than last engineer."

That taken care of, it's time to check in on your rapt audience.

AA: I WIN.  
TA: 8R8 63771N6 U5 1N 7H3 54M3 53X70R F0R DR0N3 53450N  
AA: I KILL YOU AND SHOVE YOUR CORPSE UP NEW ENGINEER'S WASTE CHUTE IF YOU COME NEAR ME. I NOT MIX SLURRY WITH TROLLS WHO MAKE PUNS.  
  
TA:


End file.
